


Rare Pair Roulette - Week One (Barty Crouch Jr x Blaise Zabini)

by DelicateScholar, DragonsAndOtters, KreeblimSabs, TheFairestOfTheRare, thewaterfalcon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death Eaters, Fairest of the Rare, M/M, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-18 22:03:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11299737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelicateScholar/pseuds/DelicateScholar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsAndOtters/pseuds/DragonsAndOtters, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KreeblimSabs/pseuds/KreeblimSabs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFairestOfTheRare/pseuds/TheFairestOfTheRare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaterfalcon/pseuds/thewaterfalcon
Summary: Every week at The Fairest of the Rare Facebook page, we draw a different pairing entirely randomly for our Rare Pair Roulette!This week Barty Crouch Jr and Blaise Zabini were the chosen two and the chapters contained here are the drabbles that our members have come up with for this certainly odd pairing!





	1. Me Too (thewaterfalcon)

**Author's Note:**

> All recognisable characters, places and situations are the property of JKR.  
> We do not profit from these works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon change: Blaise is two years older than Harry, and therefore over the age of sixteen.

 

Perhaps he should have felt some sense of sadness, a twinge of foreboding, and yet he didn’t. He’d heard Potter’s words; they’d been loud and clear even in the crowded stands and a shiver of  _ something  _ had passed through him at the sound. 

 

_ He’s back.  _

 

Blaise highly doubted whether anybody would second guess just who the  _ he  _ is question was. 

 

There would be many who would title Potter a liar. Blaise knew that is was in the nature for small minded politicians to avert and deny that which they fear, in order to avert the chaos. 

 

But Blaise didn’t take Potter, who was two years below him, for a liar, and therefore by simple deduction he could draw one conclusion only.

 

_ The Dark Lord had returned. _

 

He’d left the stadium alone. They weren’t supposed to; various Professors had stationed themselves at various points in the stands. There was, however, a vacant step that Blaise managed to easily get to, and a small gap in the edge of the stands, the he was able to casually step through. 

 

The walk to the castle was deserted and silent, the air was mild and the breeze a welcome reprieve from the mild, summer air. 

 

Even hours later Blaise couldn’t recall the path he took through the halls. He simply walked until he heard it. 

 

It was maniacal and haunting, but there was something in the way the laugh echoed around him that sparked a curiosity within the Slytherin. 

 

How he’d managed it, he did not know, but a well timed crash in the next room had done the trick to distract McGonagall just enough to beckon the source of the laughter away.    
  
“Barty Crouch, Jr,” Blaise had said, two corridors away. “I recognise your face.”

 

“And who might you be,” Barty’s eyes, two wells of madness set deep within his gaunt face swept, unashamedly, down Blaise’s body, “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you before.”

 

Blaise’s eye twitched. “Blaise Zabini.”

 

“Well, Blaise Zabini, since you’ve seemingly saved me from a kiss worse than death, why don’t you join me in finding our once again risen Master?”

 

Blaise considered the proposal for a mere second. “I  _ was  _ starting to tire of school days.”

 

Barty smiled a smile that was as unhinged as his laugh. “And afterwards, I’d love to... _ get to know _ my saviour better.”

 

His eyes, which Blaise had now determined were a unique shade of light brown, bored into Blaise’s and the Slytherin felt himself nodding, which earned him a surprising flick of Barty’s tongue. 

 

The action sent a new shiver through Blaise. 

 

This time, Barty licked his own lips, slowly. “Looking forward to it.”

 

Blaise breathed slowly before replying, truthfully, “Me too.”


	2. The Kingdom (pierrej92)

Blaise sighed as he walked to the usual room and tried to think of something entertaining that would stimulate his already bored state of mind. He had met many twisted monsters in his years, but this one bothered him more than most because he was so unlike the stories he had heard and the things he had seen - he was almost a fraud, nothing like the man who had killed his own father in cold blood. 

When he had first begun working for Azkaban he had kept up the pretence that he wanted to give back - when in reality he was scouting. He wanted someone more powerful that could bring the world to its knees, and when he had eventually proved himself, he was given the one person who had tricked Dumbledore and even nearly got away with murdering the scar headed prick who couldn't die. 

His eyes gazed over the plack on the door:   
Bartemius Crouch Jnr.   
The twisted soul who had received the Dementor's Kiss.

He had wrongly assumed the man, like so many of the others, was out of it; lost to the darkness that swarmed them as their soulless carcas's wasted away, waiting for the day their lungs gave in. 

He had entered the cell, placing down a cup of water that was more for saving face than out of hospitality and stared at the empty eyes that usually met him. 

Except for today, there was something in them. Blaise saw an ember flicker; a flash of light in a sea of emptiness. 

He had been in his mind; Blaise had seen the things he had done - all to gain a better idea of why this man had deserved the fate he did. It didn't take away the chiselled jawline that had stood the test and decay of time, or had it kept him rooted when he had seen that flicker in his eyes. 

If anything, that small fleck of hope that Barty Crouch Jnr was still somewhere in there thrilled Blaise no end. He could be the one, he thought to himself. 

Not having felt that rush since his sixth year when a broken, defeated Draco Malfoy had crawled into his bed and played out all of his fantasies. 

Blaise wanted Barty to be alive in there; he wanted to question him, listen to the reasons for his crimes from himself and not from the distorted memories he had seen in a pensieve. He wanted to learn from him, fix the mistakes he made and make the world fall to its knees.

Blaise wanted there to be something in him because the man interested him. He admired his craft, the scars that had littered his victim's bodies and the wasted glance they gave Barty before he ended their lives. Blaise wanted him to be there because he needed someone like him; he wanted someone like him. 

The Kingdom that Blaise wanted to built needed a King and Blaise thought he had found him. 

Bartemius Crouch Jnr. the man to come back from a Kiss; the man who was currently smirking up at him, a fire burning in his eyes and Blaise couldn't help but grin - they would pay.


	3. Asking For It (DelicateScholar)

It began because of a question. 

A simple question.

Blaise Zabini enjoyed Defense Against the Dark Arts nearly as much as the Dark Arts itself. He was on the road to greatness, after all, and his road would be paved with wizards who had no *moral qualms* against the latter.

"Professor Moody," he used his polite, deferential voice reserved for the likes of McGonagall or Pomfrey, "I would like to inquire further on your suggested readings. Two of the titles are only available in the Restricted section."

Mad-Eye Moody was a notorious Auror. Several of his mother's acquaintance were derisive of the crazy old coot, but Blaise saw the fear lurking in their eyes no matter how much they sneered.

"I suppose," Professor Moody ground out, "you want a permission slip."

Ignoring the gruff sarcasm in the question, he nodded with a smile. "Yes, sir. You've really inspired my want to learn. Could I come speak with you if I have further questions?"

The hunched over Professor stood up, snorting. "Merlin, does that fake dung work on the other professors?"

Blaise was rather taken back. He had no illusions that Moody was a Dark-Wizard catcher and undoubtedly prejudice, but he *was* still a teacher.

"I can get permission from another Professor, sir," he said stiffly. "I asked you so I might open a dialogue with a knowledgeable wizard. I feel like I could learn a lot from you." He even added genuine yearning in his voice.

Professor Moody walked over to his shelves, peg leg thumping loudly on the stone floor. "Y'know, I knew your father. Slimy little weasel, always thought his pretty talk would get him far in life." Moody stared at the shelves, but his magical eye rolled around to stare at Blaise distrustfully. "Like father, like son, I always say."

Shame diffused his cheeks. However, he was too well-bred to show how greatly that angered him. "I'm sorry for wasting your time, sir."

He left without further ado, lips pressed together tightly. He did not take slights well.

As the door closed behind him, a shuffle and groan hit his ears. A quick spell aimed at the bottom of the door kept it from clicking shut.

Cautiously, he slowly inched it open to keep sight of him. If the former Auror collapsed, at least Blaise could watch him do it.

It would be quite the feather in his cap after being insulted such.

Instead of collapsing though, Moody hunched over his desk. 

Blaise ran his tongue over his teeth, eyes narrowing as the man grabbed at the flask hooked on his belt. 

Clumsily, twitching.

He bit his lip as Moody took a swig, then slumped back in his chair.

Intriguing. Was he addicted to Firewhiskey? Pain potions? Crimson Flush? There were many brews a wizard could be addicted to. 

Blaise began to smile. He was going to find out what Professor Moody was hiding, and exploit him for everything he wasn't willing to offer freely.

This was an opportunity. An opportunity to have power over a man who undoubtedly forgot more about Dark Arts than most ever knew. 

After all, nobody achieved greatness by playing fair.


	4. Legacies (DragonsAndOtters)

Blaise Zabini was as surprised as any to find Bartimus Crouch Jr not only alive and well but sipping fine brandy from a crystal glass in the back of a prestigious club in Paris.   
  
The older wizard had recognized him instantly after a year’s worth of teaching classes at Hogwarts in the early ‘90s. Blaise, though taller and more handsome, hadn’t changed all that much in the years since.   
  
A subtle quirk of Barty's eyebrow and an almost imperceptible twitch of a slender finger beckoned Blaise to his side. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t Obliviate you right here and send you on your merry way?” His voice was smooth like expensive chocolate, and to the others in their vacinity not paying much attention, it probably sounded like a warm greeting.   
  
“Let me buy you a drink,” Blaise responded just as smoothly, the calm, perfect lines of his face a stark contrast to the skittering of his heart beat.   
  
“I don’t need you to buy me anything, Zabini,” Barty scoffed, rolling his dark eyes.   
  
Blaise shrugged, and his gaze roamed over the man’s form. He was dressed nicely, far too nicely for a man believed to be dead by Dementor’s Kiss. His robes were clearly expensive and lined with a luxurious looking leather. His dragon hide boots seemed to glisten with the weight of the galleons they must have cost. Barty’s dirty blonde hair was perfectly coiffed, his skin moisturized and his face clean shaven. “I can see that,” Blaise remarked. “But I need at least a drink’s worth of time to explain all the ways I’d like to get you to trust me.”  
  
Barty gaped at him for a moment before snapping an unreadable mask across his face. He considered Blaise, who could practically see the gears in Barty's mind turning, trying to decide exactly how many layers of innuendo were packed into that one sentence.   
  
Finally, Barty motioned with his head for Blaise to sit near him and conjured a second crystal glass before filling it with some of the brandy from the bottle on the table in front of them. Blaise watched him carefully as he moved, still trying to calculate how in Salazar’s good name this man could’ve escaped a Dementor’s Kiss and amassed such wealth.   
  
They conversed late into the night and made plans to meet again, and while Barty was a fine conversationalist, Blaise found his mind wandering. How would one go about inheriting riches from a man already believed to be dead?  
  
After all, like mother like son.

 

 

 


	5. They Met at the Laundromat

It had to be the lowest moment of his life. Far beyond the embarrassment of being publicly shamed in the tabloids and well past the despair he had felt in having to follow through with this particular part of his parole, Blaise Zabini was certain this was the end for him. He took in a deep breath, so as to not have to breathe the stale air he expected to find inside and slowly stepped over the threshold.

 

It was disgusting.  _ Humiliating. _

 

Blaise looked around, taking in the bright yellow of the walls with large sections of chipped to reveal and even fouler shade of green underneath. Quickly, he scanned the pocked faces of the few customers inside, suppressing the urge to run right back outside. Clearly, this part of his parole was only created to embarrass him. It was beneath him.

 

A launderette.

 

Of all the things to assign him, those bastards expected him to spend the next three months working at a rusty, old launderette off Hackney road. How his mother would cringe at the thought of her high-class son being seen in such a place but he supposed it was fitting punishment in some twisted way. He had fallen from grace after all.

 

As Blaise cautiously walked further into the room, he looked up at all the corner to see that, sure enough, there were cameras around to monitor him. He had to play nice and thankfully had years of training to help him manipulate any situation thrown his way.

 

Over the next few weeks, he perfected his role as the reformed criminal wanting to do better for society. He smiled at the dodgy women sorting through wrinkled piles of clothes and sold single use sized detergent with a casual ease. He made sure no one noticed how his hands were clenched tightly in his pockets to refrain from acting out in his irritation. There was no way he was going to let on how foul he found the place or let them see him shudder when time seemed to be standing torturously still. Blaise only had to find a project to keep him occupied for the next…  _ oh hell _ ... 36 days.

 

Just as he was preparing to find a technically legal way to ruin the life of his parole officer, if only because of complete and utter boredom, such a project walked through the door clad in a dusty leather coat.

 

He was a man of average height and mundane looks with unkempt brown hair falling over one of his eyes but Blaise immediately recognized something in him he has seen before. A darkness, a twisted sense of danger that was confirmed when he saw the flash of a familiar tattoo as the man took off the jacket.  _ This one could be fun. _ Already he promised to be more interesting than the blond socialite Blaise had played with before their games had landed him in prison.

It was only 24 days later when Blaise found himself back behind cold, metal bars that he realized how quickly he had been played and to a disastrous end. He hardly remembered the time that passed since he first shook Barty Crouch Jr.'s hand and looked him straight in the eye. Too late to realize that at last Blaise had met his match in the far seedier man.

 

Barty had used him.  _ Humiliated _ him, except then in new ways Blaise had never thought to imagine before. He almost liked it, almost enjoyed being on the other side of the dynamic. As he stretched gingerly and tried to work out the gaps in his memory, he smiled. At least it had been interesting.

There was always the chance of being offered parole again and Blaise had never looked more forward to it. He wanted the launderette again and the filthy man that came with it.


End file.
